


Down on the Upside

by oddtwist



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Absinthe, Ambiguous Feelings, Character Study, F/M, Fetish Clothing, Guilty Pleasures, Internal Conflict, Lizzington - Freeform, Mercy Killing, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddtwist/pseuds/oddtwist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He went down on his knees for her. The impartial spectator had seen a man adopting a non-threatening position for the FBI agents to make the arrest, but to Liz the unequivocal truth had unfolded right before her eyes.</em><br/>-<br/>Liz and Red are in Amsterdam facing the ups and downs of their relationship. Post season 1 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Liz had never seen that many bicycles. Endless rows of two-wheelers welcomed the visitors of Amsterdam outside Central Station in an enormous variety of colours and states of deterioration: the owners well aware of the fact that only an old bike would still be waiting for them upon return. There were bikes everywhere, parked randomly along the way as Dembe drove them through the narrow streets of Amsterdam: heaped up against bridge railings and lampposts, in front of shops and houses, on the boats in the canals and Liz even spotted one or two in trees - obviously parked there without the owner's permission.

“These days it is illegal to park wherever you want.” Red said. “It’s a new council-rule, one that the cyclists of Amsterdam are collectively ignoring. Challenging authority is the Dutch national sport. Makes me feel right at home.”

He gave Liz a warm smile, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction but she just gazed out the window to watch the boats in the canal. She was not in the mood for talking, especially not about that particular topic. In Raymond Reddington’s world, rules had been thrown overboard and lay buried beneath an impermeable layer of mire and dirt. She was _part_ of the authorities, she _was_ the law, yet as an FBI profiler she had been ordered to fraternize with the enemy, breaking most rules in the book along the way - giving a whole new meaning to the concept of conflicting loyalties.

They drove along the canal to the Keizersgracht where Dembe dropped them off in front of one of the narrow gabled houses in this picturesque, surprisingly bicycle-free street. The massive mahogany entry door had a plain style sign beside it, which informed Liz in elegant letters that they had arrived at the residence of Anton de Wit - photographer. The print on the doormat in the portal read ‘ _Just make yourself at home_ ’ in equally elegant style. Reddington picked it up, pulled at the corners and found a key inside the hidden layer of the mat.

“Anton is a very trusting soul." he explained. "He is away for the weekend, shooting pictures of the Rolling Stones in Australia. Did you know they started touring again? Where do they find the energy I wonder?”

He unlocked the door and they stepped in the small hallway where most of the space was occupied by an enormous yucca plant next to a prominent stairway leading up to the next floor. Red relieved Liz of her overnight bag and began to climb the stairs.

“Although we are in the nether lands, Amsterdam is littered with stairs.” he said while she followed him up. “Steep ones too. Remind me to take you to this little bar I found on my last visit. Hardly anyone knows about it. Despite its location in the attic of an old brothel, it’s a very respectable establishment and they serve a wonderful absinthe there. Mind-bending stuff.”

_Stairs._

Liz thought of the times she had been sitting next to him on the steps of stairs. The first time, in the park, when the seed of doubt about Tom had firmly been planted in her soul and the last time... that couldn’t have been long ago. What was it - yesterday? She had no concept of time since they sat side by side on the stairs of that empty house, talking about Berlin and Tom. _She had shot Tom._

Life after that had gone by like the outtakes of a dreary reality show. She was in a dreamlike state: she ate, slept and travelled in the company of Red and Dembe, without really knowing where they were heading. She’d temporarily lost the will to reflect upon anything that concerned her – confused about her feelings and wondering if she actually had any left. A dull numbness quenched the hurt and the anger that was trapped inside her heart. Going on auto-pilot, she suddenly found herself on a short trip to Holland. She was with Red now, she had chosen to be with him, had chosen to delve into the mystery that was her life.

Allowing him to just walk out on her was not an option; not after what had happened in the park, when he once more gave up everything and surrendered - to her. He went down on his knees for her. The impartial spectator had seen a man adopting a nonthreatening position for the FBI agents to make the arrest, but to Liz the unequivocal truth had unfolded right before her eyes. He not only put his life in her hands: he was submitting to her. It was the most disturbing thing that had ever happened to her. There was absolutely no rational explanation for his actions.

She had no illusions about the choice he’d given her when he offered her a way out. There was nothing left to choose; he knew that all along. Raymond Reddington was manipulative and dangerous but she needed him: she wanted answers and was determined to get them before he chose to cop out or was taken down permanently. She wanted a life and he was the only one who could give her that.

Liz had never stayed the night at one of Raymond’s boltholes before, but she didn’t feel the urge to make small talk after the long trip. There had been very little talk on the plane. It was clear to Red that her decision to return to him was a precarious one and Liz figured that he didn’t want to push his luck. Very wise. There was too much troubled water under the bridge, too much pain and violence - too many secrets between them. He’d told her time and again that he would never lie to her, but that did not mean that he eagerly provided her with all the pieces of the puzzle about her past. She would have to bide her time and be satisfied with evasive answers, half-truths and the occasional blunt change of subject, but no lies - that was something at least.

“I will ask Dembe to do some shopping.” Red said when he showed her to her room. “Any requests?"

“A little peace and quiet.”

"As you wish."

His smile didn’t quiet come out the way he intended. The painful grimace betrayed his fatigue; he looked older than before and weary. It was a little unnerving to see him like this and she couldn’t help giving him an apologetic smile before she closed the door and shut him out of her life – for now.

She dropped her bag in a chair and stretched out on the bed - finally alone again. She needed to be alone. Alone with just the noises of the city in this foreign country, with the buzz of the taxi's in the street below, the tingling of an occasional bicycle chime and the rolling bells of the streetcars in the distance. Alone with her thoughts about the trail of destruction in their wake – Diane Fowler, Meera, Cooper ....Tom. What more cruel surprises did life have in store for her? With her mind on rewind, she soon drifted away into blessed oblivion - in broad daylight, jetlagged and emotionally drained in the house of a stranger far away from home.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

She woke up at the feel of a familiar pressure against her back. Drowsily she turned around and settled into a comfortable position, cuddling the pliant, soft body against hers.

"What time is it?" she murmured with her eyes still closed, not wanting to wake up to reality.

There was no answer. The harsh reality was that the agreeable form in her arms felt suspiciously like a goose-feather pillow: snug and cosy, yet inanimate. That didn’t stop her from hugging it even more, burying her face into the softness of the fabric. This was her reality now. Waking up alone in bed, miserable and empty, facing an uncertain future in alliance with one of the biggest criminals in the world. Life certainly had a way of playing some cruel tricks on her.

She was alone at breakfast after sleeping a solid twelve hours. Dembe served her toast and eggs and informed her that his boss had gone out. She didn't eat but felt much better after a cup of coffee.

Dembe seemed hopelessly out of place in this house with the stately windows, the floral tapestry designs and a dining room ceiling decorated with ornaments depicting biblical scenes. She always associated the sturdy bodyguard with the deep dark jungle, feverish drums, chants and tribal dancing near a giant campfire. She was ashamed of thinking in clichés, but there it was: Dembe was a force of nature and seemed thoroughly miscast amidst hand painted cups and saucers. She watched him pour her another cup of coffee, his large worker’s hands delicately handling the porcelain. The FBI knew next to nothing about him - for all she knew he came from a well-heeled Sudanese family and was more at ease in an environment of wealth and culture than she was.

"Why are you here?” she asked, not even sure she’d actually spoken out loud.

The dark eyes regarded her with curiosity.

"This is where I am needed." he said.

Liz wondered about the humongous fee Reddington would have to pay his bodyguard to make it all worth while. The odds of making it through the day alive next to a man with a running price on his head were not in his favour. The question lingered on her lips, but Dembe spoke before she could ask.

"He paid me long ago." was all he said and began to clear the table.

That mystical answer to an unspoken question was probably all Liz would get from Dembe today: Reddington hadn’t hired him for his social skills. Maybe he was telepathic though.

She took her coffee and started on a tour of the house. It was obvious that this was the home of a photographer. Every empty spot on the walls was used to display Anton de Wit’s work, consisting mainly of portraits in black and white. The artist had a very distinct grainy style, with harsh, ingrained lines and highlighted skin. Liz even recognized one or two celebrity pictures, honest portrayals of plain men and women stripped of all the glamour. In the library she found a photoset that was prominently featured on the only bookless wall facing the windows: six formal portraits of the same man at various stages in his life and one snapshot in the middle. Age, hair and clothes changed according to decade, but the gypsy eyes always had that dark and mesmerizing quality that drew you in.

"You've discovered Ramses, I see.” she turned around to see Red standing in the doorway with a small paper bag in hand. “He’s somewhat of a legend here in Holland. If I remember correctly he was born in Paris. His father was the Egyptian consul and his mother a Polish countess. He came to Holland as a boy when she died. His father denied him."

"What makes him a Dutch legend?"

"His songs and his zest for life in general, really. He was a singer and also did some acting." Red took off his jacket, looking at the pictures with a glint in his eyes she only knew from his appreciation of fine art. "He was a phenomenal man."

"Did you know him well?"

"We shared a bed once, right here in this house."

"That well, huh?" She briefly glanced at the snapshot in the middle where Ramses placed a passionate kiss on the lips of another man, who looked into the camera with a shy glance - caught in the act, but not really ashamed.

"Yes he was gay." Reddington confirmed, amused about her insinuation. “I am not. We used the bed for the sole purpose of resting our tired limbs and admittedly intoxicated minds."

"He liked intoxication, did he?" Liz nodded at the last picture, where an old man gave the photographer a tired, ragged smile. The blue bags beneath the eyes gave him a ghostlike appearance and the malnutrition showed in his face.

"It was his only solace. Especially after Anton’s brother died.” He pointed at the shy man in the photograph.” Ramses had the whole world at his feet; well Holland anyway, but he was the loneliest man I have ever met. Sometimes you need to take the edge of the harsh world around you in order to stay sane."

"What is your drug, then?” she asked.

“My drug?” The sudden question surprised him.

"Your life is not exactly a bed of roses is it?”

"I'm a wealthy man.” he countered. “I can travel at will, see the world, smoke a cigar in Havana, soak up the sunshine in Monaco and drink absinthe in the company of a beautiful lady." He retrieved a bottle of the green liquor from the paper bag. “I have all a man could wish for.”

"How about a shot of truth in that bottle of self denial?” Liz said. “You are the loneliest man I have ever met.”

His features tightened around the mouth, the way they always did when she hit a sensitive snare. His life might be an enigma, but she was getting surprisingly good at manoeuvring through the intricate labyrinth of Reddington’s mind. The educated guess on his profile he’d once asked her to make was closer to the truth than she ever thought possible. One day she would find her way out of the maze after solving all the riddles he left for her along the way. One day she would reach the core and with that she would solve the mystery of her own past.

"I have my own special defence to stay sane, Lizzie.” he conceded. “You."

Liz looked away to hide her frustration. He had this uncanny ability to throw her off balance, leaving her completely defenceless. Just when she thought she was having the upper hand, he would say something disturbing and her emotional equilibrium drowned in the turmoil of a heart that could not handle the ambiguous feelings. The first time he so blatantly expressed his feelings for her, he’d been shackled to a chair, staring at her as if she were his long-awaited soul mate. She'd been the focus of his affections ever since and he made her feel special, but she so longed to be ordinary again - longed for the uncomplicated life of plain old Liz Scott.

"Ramses died in a retirement home a couple of years ago.” Red continued conversationally. “His mind went away, Korsakov moved in. He still lived like a legend, but didn’t know how to die like one."

"You mean he would have taken his own life?"

"He would have found a way to go out with a bang but he lost the mental abilities to achieve that. So he was doomed to live life as a shadow of the man he used to be, just waiting for the inevitable. Like your father."

There was a long sticky pause. Liz fixed him with an intense stare, anger growing on her face as the words he so deliberately spoke sank in. The matter of Sam’s death was by no means resolved. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to understand that there were issues of blame and guilt between them.

"You killed him." she said, her voice choking up again with emotions.

"I helped him die. There's a difference."

"You had no right to make that decision."

The rancour had attached itself to her heart like a tick; draining her of any comprehension or empathy about Reddington’s motives for this mercy killing. Where did he find the audacity to decide about life and death in this case? Sam had been _her_ father and he had denied her the chance to say goodbye. 

“It was Sam’s decision.” It _was_ in the end, but Red had decided when. ”He merely asked me to help him.” 

"He was my responsibility.” she shot back, the bitterness evident in her voice. “It should have been _me_."

An unexpected wave of affection washed over Red when he saw the hurt in her eyes but he suppressed the urge to pull her into a comforting hug. She would probably embarrass them both by fighting him off. The root of her anger lay deeper: the guilt about her priorities -choosing the job over her father- was not easy to come to terms with. And Red suspected there was also some distorted kind of jealousy at work here: Sam had granted Red the privilege to be with him in his dying hour; not his daughter, the one closest to him.

"You least of all, Lizzie.”

But Liz was no longer listening. There was nothing he could say to make her understand. Nothing he could say could ever make this right.

“He would never have burdened you with a responsibility like that." he said softly and was by now talking to a closed door.

A responsibility that weighed heavily on _his_ shoulders – not hers. Sam’s death had affected him deeply. He was trained to kill and had learned in time that it numbed the soul: you simply shut down your feelings and did what was necessary to survive. But with Sam it was all different. With Sam, he had been afraid of what it might do to his sanity. His soul was already tarnished beyond repair and it had taken him long and painful years to learn to live with that. But in that moment, when Sam gave his consent with a nod, Reddington feared that he would not be able to live with the memory he was about to add to his already mangled conscience. When he covered Sam’s face with the pillow and pushed him into the mattress, holding him in a desperate hug, he knew he was creating another nightmare that would haunt him forever.

Locked as one in a deadly embrace, Sam fought. Of course he fought, what the hell did he expect? Everyone hangs on to life, even those who go willingly. In dreams he could still feel him struggle: could actually feel the touch of those feeble hands on his back, frantically clinging to him, hitting him, struggling against the inevitable. This was not a mercy killing; this was a struggle for oxygen, a vigorous fight to fill his lungs with air - to his horror, Sam had truly been raging against the dying light.

He remembered every detail: the fragile body beneath him, still harbouring unexpected strength, the smooth feel of the soft pillow that muffled his own sobs, the whiff of detergent, warm tears damp against his cheeks – he held on and cried, registering every movement, every moan and the aching in his heart as the final muscle spasms ceased and the man underneath him stopped moving altogether.

This time he had not been able to shut down his feelings. This time Red Reddington had died a little, because a long-forgotten, faint luster, enkindled from within, gave new life to Raymond, who lay buried deep inside the blackness of his soul – and cried like an inconsolable little boy.


	3. Chapter 3

"Wouldn't it be cheaper to just steal the damn thing?"

Her voice reverberated throughout the vaulted ceiling of the hall, framed with cast iron alcoves where some of the immortal masterpieces of baroque art were on view. They were in the Gallery of Honour of the Rijksmuseum with not another soul in sight. Reddington had paid the director good money for a private viewing of the Caravaggio exhibition. He had installed himself on a bench in one of the alcoves to admire his favourite painting, while enjoying a glass of absinthe.

"You offend me Lizzie. I'm not a thief. I deal in information, not in stolen goods. I wouldn't dream of depriving an artist of his audience.”

“I’m sure the painter won’t mind. He’s long gone and probably died a pauper.”

“Most artists do.”

He offered her a drink, hoping to entice her to sit with him and talk. But she took the glass, raised it in toast and said “Enjoy yourself, then.” before she withdrew to leave him to it.

She’d very nearly refused the invitation to accompany him, but thought the better of it when she realized that she hadn’t left her room since the confrontation in the library. Like a sulking child she’d shut out the ugly world outside, although she was well aware of the fact that solitude was not the best way to take your mind of life's unpleasantries.

After Sam's death she had faced the different stages of grief as best she could - all five of them. But somehow number two constantly found a way to sneak back into her system. The anger deprived her of sleep and concentration and was sometimes so all consuming, that she wasn’t able to think straight. And when Tom - her anchor, her solace - had turned out to be the biggest lie in her life, she’d completely lost her bearings.

She would never forget the look in his eyes after that first shot. So much of the old Tom was in those eyes; so much of the man she once loved and when he closed in on her, the anger about his betrayal had gripped her like a vice, had tightened her muscles and made her pull the trigger again – and again. That moment was engraved in her broken heart forever.

But there was something else she could not forget. Red had risked taking a bullet for her when her husband held her at gunpoint. As much as she hated the man for depriving her of a proper farewell with her father, she had to acknowledge that he always seemed to have her best interests at heart. If she wanted to find out why he was so protective of her, she would have to pick herself up, dust herself off and come out of hiding to face the music. They were in this together and they would have to find a way to make their relationship work.

She had wandered off to the last alcove and found herself facing the _Madonna of the Rosary_ , showing the Madonna and saint Dominic surrounded by the faithful, turning to them for grace, kneeling in prayer. Her mind leaped back to that day in the park. What _was_ the significance of kneeling? Reverence? Admiration? Love and respect, perhaps humility? Whatever the cultural relevance, the moment Red kneeled down before her she’d had an epiphany that changed her perception of him forever. She now knew that this man was not just obsessed with her; he was giving proof of his devotion. He was not kneeling in defeat: he was showing her that he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for her when the time came.

The thought completely spooked her. How was she supposed to deal with that? He wasn’t some lovesick, puppy eyed co-worker that followed her around. If it were that easy, she would just be flattered and let him down easy. But Red was not a puppy. Red was a notorious criminal, a man of wealth and fame, without any morals or reservations: he could just take what his heart desired.  _Did_ he desire her? Was that the reason for his devotion? He'd never been impertinent, had never been guilty of an indecent touch. If he was harbouring romantic feelings for her, then he sure had a novel way of showing it.

She tossed that thought aside: it was silly – and vain. The mystery of his self sacrificing behaviour lay in their mutual past. A past she could no longer remember, but somehow she suspected that he hoped she would gradually remember. He was just making sure he’d be there when it happened. Even through the tears she had noticed how he’d been watching her when he gave her the music box and they listened to the Anniversary March together. He had been staring intently, observing the slightest stirring of emotions; perhaps hoping that she might remember more than a vague recollection of her father and the song. _What did he want her to remember_?

Liz sighed and took another sip of the green liquor. Maybe her past would remain a mystery forever. The muddled traumatic memories of a four year old girl were hardly reliable information. After all these years, fact and fantasy would have merged as the brain tried to fill in the gaps and you ended up with a very subjective, wishful-thinking version of the truth. Other than the rabbit she had saved from the fire, there was no tangible evidence that could help her remember.

Her eyes wandered back to Red, still in his spot on the bench; he seemed entranced by the only painting on display in the alcove. She emptied her glass and walked over to him, but he didn’t acknowledge her presence, mesmerized as he was by Caravaggio’s dark portrayal of the sacrifice of Isaac. The gloom and realism of the work was reinforced by the atmosphere of loneliness in the dim lit hall. Caravaggio was not an artist who painted the world as it should be; he painted the world as it was, shaped in relentless colours and composition, with an eye for every sordid detail. Harsh, dark and dirty - the frailty and ruthlessness of human nature conjoined in a single work of art. The frenzied look of bewilderment on Isaac’s face while Abraham held him down, adamant and unmoved, preparing for the kill, was as real to Liz as the agony in Tom’s eyes in his moment of dying.

“Can you imagine how it would feel if someone asks you to kill your child?”

The sudden question startled her - as did the sound of his voice; fragile, almost a whisper.

“Knowing that the one person you want to protect more than anyone in the universe now needs saving. From you.”

A daunting leaden knot settled itself in the pit of her stomach when she saw the glistening in his eyes. It was so unlike him to drop his defenses in front of anyone, least of all her. Suddenly she was ashamed of her selfish lamenting and self-pity. It was not always easy for her to look behind the man he had become, but in the end he was just that: a man - damaged by a burdened past and somehow she suspected that in an obscure way, Red Reddington was now trying to atone for his sins.

“What happened to your family, Red?”

Liz had read the files, had memorized all the available info in Red Reddington’s case, but the intel on his family was incomplete on some vital points. There was no mention of his wife and child after he disappeared on that fateful Christmas eve.

He cleared his throat, but still struggled to keep his voice level when he answered. “I don’t know.”

When she sat down beside him, he concentrated on his empty glass, not allowing her to see his expression.

"Do you believe in God?”

"Abraham was insane putting his faith above the life of his child.” he said. To her relief, his voice was back to normal now. “Nothing is more important than the life of your own flesh and blood. A God that asks you to sacrifice your child as a token of good faith is not worthy of one's faith. No one should ever have to make a choice like that."

This time he turned to look at her, in his eyes a silent warning to change the subject: she had the feeling that she was getting too close to home.

“Why are we here, Red?”

“We are here because you are going to make a decision.”

He retrieved an envelope from his overcoat and gave it to Liz. Inside she found a Dutch passport with her picture and a new identity: Caroline Marsh-Jonkers.

“Your way out.” He explained. “You are a widow, you have a job as lecturer for the Master Criminology Programme at the University of Utrecht and enough money to last you into the next century. Tomorrow we can say our goodbyes or you can come back with me. It’s up to you.”

“I made my choice a few days ago.”

“And I’m asking you to reconsider. I have powerful enemies, Lizzie. When they find out about you, you may be a target. I promised Sam to protect you, but I’m not so sure if I can if we stay together.”

Liz was taken aback. For some mystical reason he needed her, needed her desperately to achieve what he had set out to do when he surrendered to the FBI to work with her. And now he was asking her to leave? Did he _want_ her to leave?

“Sleep on it one more night.” he said, well aware of her confusion, but he would say no more about the subject. It had to be her decision - and a well informed one this time. He placed his glass beside the empty bottle on the floor and got up. “Let’s forget the car and walk back to the house. I’d forgotten how depressing old Amerighi can be at times and I’ve been longing for a cigar all day.” 

He put on his hat, smoothed out the brim in that characteristic gesture and held out his hand, inviting her to join him. 

Liz fixed him with an inquisitive stare, wondering what in the world had happened to cause this sudden change of heart. Then she stowed away her new life in her pocket, took his hand and they headed for the streets of Amsterdam.


	4. Chapter 4

Liz stared at the ceiling. These last few weeks she hadn’t been sleeping well, with images of Sam and Tom crowding her mind; a myriad of thoughts she was able to keep at bay during the daylight hours. Tonight, another ponderous matter kept her wide awake; the prospect of a new life, a fresh start in a faraway country: a quiet life without violence or treachery, without danger and deceit. His unexpected offer was tantalizing. Damn the man!

Ever since she met him, her life had been a rollercoaster-ride into the twilight zone. The death and destruction that suddenly clung to her like ivy would have been enough for any sane person to panic and run but the thing that unsettled her the most, was that this was all somehow connected to the past; to her father and ultimately - to her.

The harmonious childhood young Lizzie had fabricated in her mind, with a loving father and a caring mother, who'd regrettably died too early, couldn't be further from the madness of her life today. The plain and simple truth was, that she knew next to nothing about her real parents – she simply could not remember, or at least could never be sure if what she perceived to be a memory, was not just a figment of her imagination.

She wanted to find out who she was more than anything in the world, but she was also wary of it; especially after Reddington’s honest words of warning. _You can face it...confront it....engage it and maybe....maybe, you'll prevail and rise above it._ An ominous statement like that didn't inspire much confidence, but she’d made up her mind and had no intention of backing down now. Yet tonight she was building castles in the air; imagining her new life as a lecturer at the University of Utrecht. Holland was a nice enough country to hide in and what was there to go back to in the US? The two people she had loved and lived for were both gone.

The human mind wasn't a terribly logical place. Given the choice to face a horrible truth or to conveniently avoid it, most people would choose the easy way out. Liz however, had made her decision and would stick with it but she was not going to tell Reddington before morning. She wanted to ruffle his feathers a bit. She hated being kept on a leash with his cryptic remarks about her past, hated his pedantic manner of always being one step ahead of her and the sly way he had assumed the role as her touchstone. He’d pulled the rug out from under her, had eliminated the backbones of her life until there was no one left to turn to but him – and she came running, time and again. Damn the man!

She rolled over and fluffed up the pillows in the hope to find a more comfortable position to finally catch some sleep. The green fairy in her bloodstream made her light-headed and wide awake. She should have refused that last glass before she went to bed. Liz was not much of a drinker; one or two glasses of wine during the evening usually sufficed and she never drank anything stronger. She knew of the dangers of absinthe; the legendary lucid drunkenness it could evoke, but most of the mystical qualities attributed to this particular beverage were scientifically rejected and Liz could vouch for that: there were no fabled psychedelic dreams - her mind simply would not let her go.

She considered getting up to scower the vast library for an English book that would be boring enough to make her fall asleep, when the sound of breaking glass finally forced her out of bed. In the hallway, she followed a muffled voice that brought her to Red’s room. The door was ajar, a faint light still on and the soft voice inside was replaced by an easy listening tune from the radio. Liz peered inside and saw the only occupant of the room stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, a bottle on the floor beside the bed, the broken glass beneath it. Red was obviously having a bad dream; his face wet with sweat, his breathing laboured and shallow. She went in and headed for the bed, carefully scanning the floor for broken glass.

“Red?”

There was no answer, but the worst of his nightmare was obviously over. He was drifting off into a deep sleep, induced by the intake of a rather large amount of alcohol: the bottle on the floor was empty. She kneeled down and began to gather the sharp pieces of glass when a noise at the door startled her. Dembe stood in the doorway, dressed in only white boxers and one white sock. The matching white of his eyes formed an eerie contrast with the rest of his naked body.

“Nightmare.” Dembe rasped, his voice still hoarse of sleep.

“Yes, Dembe.”

“It’ll pass.” The voice of experience spoke in his tone, but Captain Obvious seemed not entirely lucid himself: his eyelids drooped as he spoke.

“Does he often have nightmares?”

“Sometimes.” Dembe confirmed. “Raymond is a restless sleeper.”

“Well, I’m glad he isn’t in a coma, if he really drank a whole bottle of this stuff.” She picked up the empty bottle and shot him an accusatory glance.

“We shared.” Dembe said in his boss’ defence and some more white appeared in the darkness as he gave her a bright, sheepish smile.

“ _Did_ you now?”

That would explain the one sock and the fact that he was shamelessly showing off his muscles to her in the middle of the night. Dembe without any clothes on was an extremely sexual being, reminding Liz once again of the primitive -and carnal- associations that sometimes came to mind when she allowed her mind to wander. Fortunately it was too dark for him to see the blush appear on her cheeks.

“Go back to bed, Dembe.” she said and turned her eyes away from this abundance of male temptation, acutely aware of her own lack of clothing, squatting beside Raymond’s bed in just sleeping shorts and tank top. “You need your beauty sleep.”

The big man hesitated and she bravely fixed him with the confident stare she usually reserved for innocent bystanders in a crisis. The white of his eyes seemed to hover like a disembodied entity in the room and then it was suddenly gone and she feared that he had fallen asleep in upright position.

“Go on.” she said, a little louder.

And then the boxers moved and he left without another word.

“What are you afraid of?” she whispered while she resumed her task. “That I'll murder him in his sleep?”

Liz finished cleaning up and covered the area beside the bed with two towels from the bathroom, just in case; although the risk that Red would injure himself in the morning was next to nothing, as he still had his shoes on.

Reddington struck her as a man who would consider sleeping in your clothes as a capital offence. Times would really have to be dire for him to lower his standards and drop his guard like this. What if someone attacked them right now? Would Dembe rush in to defend him with his other white sock? She sniggered and stared at the sleeping man on the bed. Should she take off his shoes? No. He would probably resent that when he found out that she invaded his privacy. Best to keep your distance, Liz. Which was hard enough with a man who had shown his devotion by going down on his knees for her. Terribly embarrassing - and terribly flattering as well.

Sleeping men tended to acquire an air of pristine innocence altogether apart from the waking world. Reddington, neither innocent nor pristine, defied the expectation. Even in this comatose state, his charisma was steadily transmitting strong vibes all around. Liz could not suppress the urge to watch him sleep; to really watch him for once, without having to be afraid of getting caught in the act. There was something fundamentally embarrassing about the fact that ever since she met him, she had developed an unhealthy appreciation for well dressed men. She liked the way he paid attention to every detail of his appearance. It was not just the way he carried himself and dressed accordingly as part of the decorum, but he was one of those men who enjoyed wearing quality clothing, he genuinly appreciated the care and effort that had been put into the manufacture of these garments. Even in deep sleep, he looked polished and elegant, the grey vest slightly tightening around his chest with each breath he took. What kind of man was really hiding underneath that suit of armour, she wondered. Would it be the biggest mistake of her life if she stayed with him?

Feeling very tired all of a sudden, she sank down on the chair beside his bed and checked her watch; according to US time it was eight o’clock in the evening. She really should try and catch some sleep, but was afraid that the walk back to her room would wake her up again. She took the extra blanket from the bed and covered her legs to keep warm. She would just sit here a little and listen to the radio and the steady breathing that was strangely appeasing somehow. Leaning back into the cushions, she closed her eyes, subconsciously stroking the scar on her wrist, wondering how many more scratches her soul would have to endure before this was all over.


	5. Chapter 5

She shouldn’t have done that.

Touching the scar was a long-ingrained, subconscious habit she’d developed as a child. Some people picked their nose or had a weird throat clearing tick; some talked to themselves, even in public. Liz had her scar - which was harmless enough, except on those occasions when the coarse skin underneath her fingers registered in her brain. It was a trigger that could set her off pondering about the feelings associated with it: the panic of being trapped inside the blaze, the fear of losing the bunny rabbit, the pain when the chasing flames finally caught her, her father’s strong arms around her, taking her to safety - and then there was the latest addition to this list: Raymond Reddington.

His version of that traumatic event in her life was very revealing and the more he told, the more she suspected that his account was based on first-hand information. Her gut feeling suggested that he had been there. The first time she showed him her scar, he specifically asked to see it. She resented it but obliged; as a profiler she had grown accustomed to peculiar requests from the criminals she interviewed and sometimes you just had to adopt a self-effacing demeanour in order to establish a basis of trust. In hindsight she suspected that it was vital for him to see it: he needed confirmation of her identity. And it only just occured to her: if _she_ had a visible mark from the past, maybe _he_ did too: a tangible piece of evidence that linked them together. If she could find that and confront him with it, perhaps he would finally tell her the whole truth about their mutual history.

There was nothing on record about distinctive scars on his body, but she had learned not to trust the files. There was no mention of any tattoos either, yet she once heard Ressler make a casual remark about them to Meera. She could not always rely on the intel the FBI provided. In Reddington’s case, she would have to do her own research and when opportunity knocked one should open the door to let it in.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she listened to his steady, deep breaths. He was still out cold, lying diagonally across the bed as if unceremoniously dumped there. The shimmering light of the window followed the contours of his body, drawing the eye to the moonlit areas; the hand on his belly, slowly moving up and down with each breath, the glistening of sweat on his brow. She pushed her blanket aside and leaned in to study his face.

“Red?”

There was no reaction, not even the trembling of an eyelash. Cautiously she rose, hesitating at his bedside, unsure about the course of action. She fleetingly mused that it would be wise to prepare some sort of justification for the unmitigated invasion of privacy she had planned, but she couldn’t come up with a proper excuse. It was late, she was tired and probably not thinking straight – she would just have to improvise. He was too intoxicated to realize what was going on anyway.

Slowly she kneeled beside him on the bed, careful not to put her weight down all at once. Deep within his sleep, Red shifted ever so slightly, and then, his lips parted, and a sigh escaped him, a volatile breath as vulnerable as a waking Red dared never be. As much as her brain tried to keep control, other senses would not ignore it and reacted with unexpected ardour. She shivered at the sudden rush of adrenaline that went straight to the core of her being. Her fingers trembled when she reached for the top button of his waistcoat. She was keenly conscious of her actions: acutely aware of the still body underneath her hands. Something had decidedly changed. All of a sudden, the prospect of peeling layer after layer of armour off Red, invading the inner sanctum of his body, was indescribably erotic.

This had to stop. This was a mistake in all sorts of ways, yet the feeling of excitement that washed over her was intoxicating, driving that last shred of reason from her. She started unbuttoning the vest, gently slipping the buttons from their loops, uncovering the tailored shirt underneath and the shape of the white undershirt, visibly outlined against the darker colour of his skin. She was drinking in every detail when she loosened his tie and undid the shirt - her main task nearly forgotten. There were no scars on the skin that was exposed, so a more thorough exploration was fully justified, she thought, ignoring the little voice in her head, warning her that she was not supposed to enjoy this.

Gently she pulled the shirt loose from the waistband and lifted up his T-shirt, careful not to touch him, although her hands had warmed up by now, along with the rest of her body. _You shouldn’t be doing this._ The voice echoed in her mind as her eyes followed the path of curly hairs up to his chest. The skin she uncovered was smooth and incredibly soft beneath her fingers. _What happened to 'keep your hands to yourself'?_   Flattening her palm against his chest, she felt the firmness of his skin and slowly, tremulously, her fingers began to move over the silky hairs as she playfully traced the path down his chest, across his stomach towards the waistband of his trousers, eliciting another sound from deep within his throat that encouraged her even more.

It was an exquisite feeling, being incredibly aroused, all alone in her fantasy, with Red lying oblivious in dreams, his subconscious responding to her touch, unknowing and uncaring: he need never know. She regarded the temptation sprawled out before her; no longer a young man, yet so enticing that she refused to deny herself the pleasure of imagining what it would be like to feel him against her, skin to skin, to have those hands roving her body, those lips on her mouth, on her breasts - when unexpectedly she found herself gazing into a pair of gray eyes, not the slightest hint of disorientation revealed, as if he fully expected to see Liz leaning over him like that.

To her own surprise she didn’t shy away. He was after all partly to blame. What was a woman to do against the unremitting attentions of a man who was not ashamed to show his deepest affection and downright devotion? Still, she was relieved to see that he did not give her cause to feel guilty, because the feverish passion inside her was mirrored in his eyes. There was a long moment as they just gazed at one another, the air between them filled with terrifying and wonderful possibilities.

Then he reached for her hand and pulled her down. His lips found her mouth, drawing her in the languid kiss of a man still half asleep. The rest of his body was waking up rapidly though: his arousal straining against the fastening of his trousers as she arched into him, moving in a slow but urgent rhythm. Her hands slipped under his shirt, caressing the smooth, damp skin as she pulled him in a tight embrace, wanting to feel every inch of his flesh. He'd found his way underneath her tank top, cupping her breast, a sensitive finger petting the nipple that hardened under his touch, eliciting a moan of pleasure inside their mouths. When they came up for air his eyes bored into her and there was an honest craving inside them that almost scared her. He gasped her name in a throaty voice that resonated inside her chest, causing her heart to race in anticipation. He was hers for the taking: to love or to hate - he belonged to her.

Roused by the vulnerability in his eyes, she entangled herself from his arms and held him pinned down beneath her. She needed to see him, feel him, wanted to taste him and know him like no living soul had known the man before. As if moving of their own, her hands started on an unbridled journey of acquainting themselves with the enigma that was Raymond Reddington, her hands probing each area of bared flesh, followed by lips, tongue and teeth, finding the most sensitive and most responsive areas of his body, spurred on by the way he kept saying her name.

"Liz."

Instead of courteous dignity, there was intensity, naked and raw. Bodies rubbed together, clothes were ripped away, tongues traced wet paths on hot skin and there were grunts and the clashing of teeth. 

"Lizzie."

There was no grace in their lovemaking, it was primitive and sweaty, they dueled for supremacy as frantic hands sought and grabbed and fondled.

"Lizzie."

Something disturbingly distracting annoyed her in the way he spoke - smothering the passion, giving way to an indiscriminate sinking feeling. Liz opened her eyes and found herself staring at Red, fully clothed, sitting on the edge of the bed with a worried look his face. She was still in her chair by the bed, flustered and mortified as the ugly truth dawned on her. She forgot how to breathe.

"You were dreaming." he said with a reassuring smile."Everything alright?"

"Oh." She gathered the blanket and the tattered pieces of her dignity around her scarcely clothed form. "I'm sorry I woke you, I must have had a dream."  _That's exactly what he said, smart ass._

He smiled at that again, the familiar smile she had come to know so well: slightly amused, but terribly warm, so much so, that she would sometimes conjure up the image before falling asleep.

"At least it was a nice one." he said, completly void of ambiguity, but Liz was still half stuck in her dream, her body pleasantly tingling from the aftermath, feeling miserably embarrassed about it, now that she was confronted with the live version of the man of her dreams.

"I never remember my dreams." she lied.

She would certainly try to bury this one in a dim, dark cellar in her mind, where she hoped she'd never find it again. But somehow she knew that this dream would follow her like a shadow, forever.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The undeniable smell of bacon and eggs lured Liz to the kitchen, where she found Dembe behind a giant plate of Eggs Benedict, with Reddington at the counter slicing a cucumber and tomatoes. She hesitated at the door; the pungent scent of bacon in the small kitchen tightened her stomach. Her body was not ready for food and she watched in amazement how Dembe stowed away a fork full of sliced bacon on toast.

With a touch of jealousy, Liz noted that both men had a fresh and clean appearance, neither showed any sign of a hangover. Liz was nowhere near well-rested and recognized the crankiness that always crept up on her after a restless night: the men responsible for her lack of sleep could at least have the decency to greet her with sleepy eyes. But instead there was a cheerful “Good morning, Lizzie.”, when Reddington spotted her lingering at the door. “What can I get you?” He pulled up a chair and waited for her order.

She appraised him for a moment; dressed in a stylish new outfit; white shirt, blue trousers, matching vest and tie - nothing that could remind her of last night. But it was all she had been thinking of in the early hours of the morning. She'd tried to focus on the decision she had made: went through all the pros and cons again; asked herself if she would allow him to draw her into his world she so despised - but whatever angle she tried to cover, the fragments of her dream were always there, nagging at the back of her mind, distracting her from the real issue.

On a cognitive level, Liz knew that the sub conscience had a way of making unexpected twists and turns when the brain was processing the impressions from our waking hours, but it came as a complete surprise to her that she apparently harboured that kind of dormant feeling for Raymond Reddington. She had dismissed them as a one-off, caused by fatigue, absinthe and the loneliness of waking up next to an empty spot on the bed every morning. As much as she hated Tom for what he had done, she missed him - the ghost of him still lingered around her.

“You don’t strike me as a bacon-and-eggs type.” Reddington said when she finally took her seat at the kitchen table. “Would you like me to make you some pancakes instead?”

“I hate pancakes.” she replied without thinking.

It sounded more abrasive than intended and from beneath her eyelashes she caught the knowing glance that was exchanged between Dembe and his boss. She closed her eyes for a brief moment to collect her thoughts. It was hard enough to concentrate on what she was about to say, without being reminded of her treacherous husband.

“Can I interest you in a healthy cucumber sandwich, then?” Red asked and patted on his stomach with a meaningful gesture. “I am restricting myself to fruit and greens today. Ever since I nearly starved in a prison cell in Algeria, I find it difficult to say no to food.”

She shot him an unimpressed look, but his warm smile did not fade. Liz had learned that he was probably telling the truth each time he produced another anecdote from the infinite supply of Red Reddington's Amazing Adventures, but she was beginning to develop an aversion to his tall tales. She was not interested in how he presented himself to the world, she needed to see the man behind the smokescreen, but he was not willing to show her his true colours - not yet.

“A sandwich will be fine.” she replied icily.

“Coffee?”

“Yes please.”

She needed coffee like she needed air. Her head was still terribly fuzzy as if emerged in a dense fog, with snatches of yesterday appearing at the most inconvenient times, dream and reality mingling, making her lose all her poise.

“Dembe told me that I had a rather vivid dream last night.” Reddington chatted on with his back to her while he poured her a cup of coffee. ”I apologize for waking you up. I hope I didn't say or do anything embarrassing. I tend to talk in my sleep.”

Was he making fun of her? Liz felt the imperative need to disappear into a black hole as soon as possible. Although it was impossible for him to be aware of what had gone on in her head and body because of him, the familiar, ever-present guilt was taking charge of her feelings, preventing her from acting and speaking as if nothing had happened. But he hadn’t turned around to take in her reaction. Beside her, Dembe was still deeply involved in his plate and took no notice of the conversation.

Reddington returned to the table with her sandwich and coffee and sat down behind his fruit and tea. He briefly glanced at her before he concentrated on peeling his apple, his eyes crinkling in a friendly way.

"Man cannot be held accountable for the things he says and does in his dreams." he said in a tone that perhaps meant to reassure but trembled with another emotion entirely.

Could it be that he was uneasy about the stirrings of his sub conscience while she had watched him sleep? Liz lifted the coffee cup to her lips, gratefully inhaling the scent and sipped, watching him through the rising steam. This was a man of many secrets; a criminal like Raymond Reddington would have a whole regiment of skeletons in the closet he considered off limits to prying eyes.

"That applies to women too." 

That settled it. He knew. At least about the nature of her dream. Liz calmed herself with the thought that what he didn’t know was that he had been cast as the male lead in her erotic little flick. She was not ashamed of the things that went on in the privacy of her own mind: she was a woman with healthy desires - if some of those got twisted around in her brain then so be it. Time to put this behind her and focus on important matters, like her life for instance.

"You once told me that if anyone was going to give you a second chance, then it would be me.” she said, feeling a bit more confident, supported by the cleansing effect of the coffee, that helped her remember the speech she had prepared this morning. “I am willing to give you that chance, but only on my terms."

Dembe stopped eating and looked from Liz to Reddington. Then he rose, sensing that the conversation was clearly going to be raised to a personal level at some point.

"Please stay, Dembe." she said. "This concerns us all. And by us I mean you, me and Red. It seems we’re in this together – like the three musketeers."

Dembe, plate in hand, still in midair, looked at his boss.

"Finish your breakfast, Dembe."

With the bodyguard between them, a little less focused on his food than before, Liz and Reddington glanced at each other, both a little insecure, both afraid to continue for fear of the outcome.

"I take it this means that you have decided to stay in the ring." Red said in a tentative approach to get the conversation going. He could tell by her attitude that this was not going to be easy.

“I have some questions for you and we have to agree on some terms.”

“Terms?”

"The killing has to stop."

He put down his teacup and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with that condescending look that really annoyed her.

"You should understand that we are fighting a war, Lizzie and a dirty one at that. It's kill or be killed."

"Even in wartime we respect a code of conduct." she replied briskly.

He threw his head back in laughter. "Oh, Lizzie, ever the American heroine. I understand that you would like to believe in such a romantic concept of the world, but I’m afraid it only exists in the movies."

"I don't care; it's what I am. I won't have it any other way. I will not work with you if you keep running around killing everyone who gets in our way. I understand there will be casualties, but there will be no shooting of unarmed, defenceless, tortured suspects while I am alive."

She was of course referring to the defenceless man Reddington had shot in cold blood right in front of her. It hardly registered in her brain at the time, because Tom -her husband Tom, her lover Tom- was pointing a gun at her, but afterwards, when the events of that day replayed before her eyes, she remembered the callousness in Red’s expression when he shot the man. It only confirmed what she already knew: Reddington was a merciless killer, but nowadays she had to remind herself of that. He was also a charming man and she had to admit that he even was fun to be with when she was in the right mood. She could easily forget that he was manipulating her, that he only showed her what he wanted her to see.

She was well aware of the fact that in Red's world, mercy meant weakness and would ultimately lead to your own downfall. The life of an enemy meant nothing to him but Liz was determined to never stoop to his level. She would see this through, stay with him until their work was done and then she would arrest him and put him behind bars, where he belonged. Whatever happened in his past that turned him into the man he was today, it could never justify the ruthless killings she had witnessed.

"If you want a second chance, then the killing has to stop.”

Dembe kept his eyes on Reddington, radiating an almost amused sort of expectation. It would be interesting for him to see how compliant his boss was going to allow himself to be in order to get what he wanted. Outwardly calm, Red was biting the inside of his cheek, chewing on a retort that was boiling under the surface, but those particular words didn't make it across his lips.

"Alright." he simply said.

“Good. Now let us recap where we are today." Her tone was friendly now, but businesslike. "You are a complete stranger, who knew my adoptive father well and somehow you are connected to my past, a past that seems to be very shady and dangerous even today. And we're all very hush-hush about it.”

“That about sums it up.” Red smiled, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from every word in that last remark. And ignoring the convenient silence she subsequently created to give him the opportunity to share some of the information he was holding back. 

“You are not prepared to tell me more but I will gradually find out myself.” It was a statement, not a question and he took it as such, nodding in agreement. “In the meantime you regard yourself as my chaperone and protector, helping me with my career. You help us catch the bad guys and get rid of your enemies along the way.”

“I do admit that the arrangement is of a symbiotic nature - to our mutual benefit.”

“An arrangement that is so important to you, that you will do anything to keep me safe, even if that means putting your own life in danger.”

“Yes.”

A plain and simple yes. Sometimes Liz had the strangest feeling about him as though they were attached by some invisible wire wrapped around their hearts. A wire that would sever that vital organ if she were to leave - and she feared they would both bleed out if she did.

“The Raymond Reddington I have come to know is not a man who is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice unless the stakes are incredibly high." she said, scrutinizing him intently. "You go to great lengths to keep me involved in this little escapade, which leads me to believe that you cannot go on without me.”

“Accurate again, I literally cannot live without you.”

He returned her steady gaze with a carefree smile around his lips, but the naked honesty in his eyes was deeply unsettling.

"What will happen if I decide to end our.....partnership."

"Lizzie, at the risk of sounding like an overly romantic, love sick fool suffering from a severe case of Weltschmerz, the truth of it is, if you leave me I will die - not eventually, not intellectually, not figuratively or poetically but I will cease to exist in the very near future. "

If he was terribly worried about that, it did not show on his face, where the smile still lingered as he sipped his tea. But he was not joking. One look at Dembe told her that, weird as it might seem, he was telling her the truth. What was so special about her that she apparently held his life in her hands?

“Yet, you are willing to let me go.” she thought out loud. He had offered her a way out, when he knew it would be the death of him. There he was again, kneeling at her feet, putting his life in her hands. “You are willing to give me a new life so I can safely live to be a hundred years, singing songs of Ramses, drinking absinthe in the weekend, checking out the new exhibitions at the Rijksmuseum - again you are willing to sacrifice yourself for my well being.”

“Yes.” he said calmly, a slight flutter of his eyelashes; his smile had disappeared.

There was a long pause, in which Dembe had the good grace to stop munching his breakfast. It was evident that the bodyguard was not very comfortable with the way things were going for his boss and the privilege of being present during this conversation was becoming more awkward by the minute.

"Why?"

In the charged silence that followed both Liz and Dembe eagerly awaited his answer.

"Please don't ask me that." Red's eyes had taken on that familiar, conflicted expression of a man split in two, torn between wanting to confide in her, and wanting to protect her from the truth. "I have never lied to you and I don't want to start now."

She curled her lips at that and nodded her head in frustration.

“Well, you leave me with not much of a choice, do you? Stick with you to solve the mystery of my past or leave and adopt a new identity, thus signing your death warrant.”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, I am just trying to be as honest with you as I can.”

“We could take you in protective custody.”

“You might as well send another open invitation to the likes of Anslo Garrick to come and get me. You know that is not an option, Lizzie. I’m cornered, trapped, but I have a chance if you stay. _We_ have a chance if you stay.”

Liz had known him long enough to understand that this was all he was willing to reveal, but she believed him. Why else was he risking his life time and again to save hers, to ensure that she would live and be there for - for what? For him? To save him? Or someone close to him? Was her well being somehow connected to his family? Was he doing all this to save them? The emotions she had witnessed in the Rijksmuseum were by no means the feelings of a man reminiscing on the past. His grief was genuine and fresh, not that of a man who had found closure.

She shook off that train of thought with another sip of strong coffee. When the time came all would be revealed and it was no use wrecking her brain with problems she could not solve. There was however another matter that was still preying on her mind.

“Red, I've already asked you this but I really need you to tell me the truth.” Liz locked eyes with him, ready to detect the slightest change in his expression. “So I'll ask you again. Are you ...., are we related in some way?”

“No, Lizzie. I am not your father, not your big brother, nor your uncle, not even a second cousin once removed. We have no family ties whatsoever.”

She believed him, nevertheless she couldn't help saying: “If I ever find out you lied to me about that, I will personally chop your head off.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“It would explain your motives and your obsession with me.” It was also a reassuring thought before falling asleep each night. Erotic dreams she could handle, but Freudian twists would complicate matters considerably. “You act like a father protecting his child, but if we are not related, than I will just accept you as a man with oddly paternal feelings for me.”

"I'm sorry if I make you feel uncomfortable."

"Stop saying you're sorry, okay? It doesn't suit you. I may not be your daughter, but somehow I get the feeling that a father's love is motivating you after all. I know you're not telling me the whole truth, here Red, and I must warn you: if we are going to continue working together, then I will start turning your life upside down and inside out. I will find out what happened to your wife and daughter, and I will uncover every dirty little secret there is to find about you."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." he said, his eyes sparkling at her.

Annoyed by his enthusiasm about her doomspeech, she continued with vigor. "You should understand that I will arrest you and lock you up if my investigations give me cause to end our little arrangement."

“I already told you that I would make you famous, Lizzie.” he said with a endearing smile. “If anyone is allowed to lock me up, it’ll be you.”

She watched him taking a bite from his apple as though he were the happiest man alive. Liz marvelled at the way he always dealt with life’s challenges. Here she was, threatening to lock him up and throw away the key, and he practically thanked her for it. She suddenly felt the weight of the world upon her. She was just a rookie who made mistakes, what if he died because of her mistakes? The thought of losing him was unnerving. Not only because it would mean that she'd never uncover the mystery of her past, it went deeper than that, deeper, perhaps, than she was willing to look. Because to admit that the idea of losing Red terrified her, would mean admitting that he meant more to him than she had realized - and such feelings were dangerous.

He was everything she was not; a crook and a cold blooded murderer, but underneath all those layers of mire, there was also the charming man, the kind one, who would walk through the fire for her and who loved her like no one had ever loved her before. His was not a father's love, nor a lover's love, but an unconditional love: unrequited, asking nothing in return and that mystery was enough to keep her going. She would see this through until the end - whatever the cost.

“This is an agreement between you and me alone.” she said, rounding it off. “The FBI has nothing to do with it. You will answer to me first and foremost. I will decide if we involve Ressler and the team.” That what’s left of it, she thought bitterly and briefly wondered how Ressler and Aram were coping.

“Agreed.” Red said with a passionate gleam in his eyes, lighting up his whole face.

Liz managed to keep her cool and gave Dembe a look when he didn’t answer.

The dark eyes glittered back at her. “Agreed.” he answered quickly, automatically. 

Dembe suddenly realized that he had just agreed to serve two masters. Working with Raymond was like working with a constant truant: the man would patiently listen to his advice and do the exact opposite. And he feared that working with agent Keen meant having to answer to Mother Knows Best - and Raymond had just given her carte blanche over their lives. 

“Good.” Liz finished her coffee, grabbed the sandwich from her plate and stood to escape the bacon-filled atmosphere. “One more thing, Red.”

“Yes?”

“Please stop calling me Lizzie. You don’t claim me as your daughter, so stop treating me like one.”

And with that she left, leaving her two new partners behind without so much as a backward glance.

“By George she’s got it.” Red mumbled.

A quote that was completely lost on Dembe, who seemed to have lost his appetite too, weary as he was about this new situation. His boss had developed a self-destructive streak ever since he decided to contact Elizabeth Keen and Dembe was not sure he would be able to protect the man from himself.

Absorbed in thought, Reddington watched her all the way down the corridor to her room. The fact that she finally told him to stop calling her Lizzie was a sign that she had evolved: she was no longer the apprentice, no longer the rookie, the novice; she was an equal partner now and in future he would treat her as such.

She refused to act as the helpless pawn in this dangerous game he was playing, but as a vital piece on the chessboard from which his life depended, he needed her, needed a partner he could trust and rely on. He had given her a brief glimpse of his vulnerability, paving the way to a different role for her and she had accepted it.

What he could not have anticipated was how proud he was and how excited about this new Liz. This partnership would prove to be one of the most fascinating ventures in a long time.

 

      *

  _“Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”_

  _Albert Camus_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the readers who have taken the time to leave kudos and/or comments. It makes it all worthwhile.


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